No Mistakes
by janthelibrarian
Summary: Sherlock Holmes doesn't make mistakes. But what if he did, and it was the biggest mistake anyone could ever make? Rated M for drug reference and sexual content. My first fanfic. Reviews appreciated.


Sherlock was ready to go home. Mycroft said he wasn't, it wasn't time, he hadn't completed his mission. What did he know? Sherlock had been in this self-imposed exile for nearly a year, and had spent every minute of every day preparing. Even during the brief periods when he was forced to sleep his mind continued to plan. He was ready. This would work.

He entered the flat a little after noon. John was at work, giving him several hours to get everything ready. It had to be perfect, and it would be. He was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't make mistakes.

For a moment he simply observed, taking in the sights and smells of the life he never meant to leave behind. So little had changed. Experiments half-finished still cluttered the table. His books sat untouched on the shelves. John had made no move to clear out his things. Indeed, everything had been left exactly as it was, as if John expected him to stroll back in any day.

Now he was here.

Setting his bag of supplies on a clear corner of the table, Sherlock got to work. All the things he hadn't done for John before—cooking, cleaning, eating—he did now. In fact, food was his first order of business.

Appetite satisfied, Sherlock set about cleaning the flat. He worked his way methodically from the kitchen, through the dining area, and into the living room. Trash went into the bins, dust was wiped away. The sheer amount of dust confused him momentarily. Clearly John had been neglecting the place in his absence. He didn't like to think about what that meant.

Finally, just before six in the evening Sherlock was ready. The flat was spotless, the meal prepared and laid out with care, his violin tuned and ready to play John's favorite pieces. The click of the key in the lock was his cue to begin.

The sound of John's footsteps on the stairs stilled as Sherlock released the first notes with his bow. John would know what it meant. He would understand, the way only he could, all the things Sherlock offered through the sound: homecoming, apology, loneliness, love…

Yes. Love.

Sherlock's hand trembled slightly, but only for a moment. The nearly imperceptible pause in the music, however, seemed to will John back into action, as though he understood the struggle Sherlock had gone through to come to this realization. Three more steps and the door opened on the most beautiful sight Sherlock had ever seen.

John. His John. Smiling. Forgiving. Returning every sentiment Sherlock had ever felt and repressed.

"You're alive."

"So are you."

The two stared, unmoving save for Sherlock's hands on the violin, finishing the song and all the things he had never said.

The spell broke with the last haunting notes and John looked away from Sherlock's face to take in the state of the flat.

"You cleaned?"

"And cooked. Shall we eat?"

"Seems a safe enough place to start."

"Good, because I'm starving."

"You?"

"I've developed a healthy appetite in your absence."

"I'm not the one who was gone."

"Right. Of course. Shall we?"

The meal was heavenly, a feast made somehow all the more delectable for the small snack Sherlock had consumed earlier. They didn't talk as they ate, but by the time it was over Sherlock, completely sated, was ready."

"You have questions?"

"One or two. Or a thousand."

Sherlock chuckled. "Why did I do it? Where have I been? Why didn't I come back sooner, or at least contact you?"

"Brilliant as ever."

"Moriarty threatened you. If I didn't jump, make the final move in his twisted game, snipers would kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade."

"He was probably bluffing."

An unexpected chill ran down Sherlock's spine.

"I thought so myself, but the risk was too great."

"So you jumped. But you didn't die. How?"

"I faked it. I had a lot of help. Molly. Mycroft. My homeless network."

"I could have helped too."

"You did. By believing."

"I never did."

Sherlock allowed himself to smile. "The plan was quite simple," he continued, not quite ready to move on to that topic just yet. "I picked the location to limit the view, arranged for a rubbish truck to break my fall, then got to the ground and applied the makeup so it would appear I'd smashed open my skull."

John winced, obviously remembering the sight. "You had no pulse."

"Rubber bands to restrict blood flow the arms. My accomplices prevented you from getting close too soon, kept you from checking the carotid artery, then took me away before you could see through the sham. The rest was politics, Mycroft's field."

"Amazing. You planned all that in what, a matter of hours?"

"I had to, to keep you safe."

"But you didn't know about the snipers until you got up to the roof."

Something about that bothered Sherlock, but he pressed on.

"I knew Moriarty would have something planned. He wanted to burn my heart, so obviously that had to do with you. I did all that, all this," he said with a sweep of his hand to indicate the flat, "so we could be together."

"Together?"

"Don't repeat me, John. It makes you sound ignorant. And you're not. You are…Think, John. Think about our time together. Think about what it means that Moriarty chose you as his best weapon against me."

John closed his eyes, and Sherlock could see him sorting through memories, trying to come up with the answer. There. A twitch. A slight frown. He had it. He opened his eyes and spoke a single word.

"No."

"No? What do you mean, no?"

"I mean I'm not going to say it. You are."

Sherlock leapt to his feet and began to pace. This wasn't going as planned. He had counted on John to understand, not just the answer but the need for him to be the one to speak it. Several times he opened his mouth but the words wouldn't come. He felt helpless. And hungry. Yes, a little food would give him strength.

"What are you doing?" John demanded.

"I need to eat, John. Remember? You were always on me about it."

"You've had too much. You'll make yourself sick."

But he made no move to stop the detective, trusting him to know his own limits. Sherlock sighed—full, confident, ready.

"I love you, John Watson."

The pronouncement was made to his feet, and after several moments of silence Sherlock thought he had said it wrong. Or maybe he hadn't said it at all. Slowly, he raised his eyes to the doctor's face. John regarded him with what could only be described as a whimsical look.

"Was that so hard?"

"Yes!" Sherlock all but screamed. How could the man be so dense at a time when he needed him the most?

"I know it was." John slid off his chair to kneel before Sherlock. "That's what makes it so powerful. So important. So real."

Unconsciously, the two men leaned forward until their faces were nearly touching.

"And you?" Sherlock's voice was now but a whisper, as if to balance out the previous volume. "Do you…love me too?"

John laughed, and Sherlock felt his heart sink. "Who's the idiot now?"

And then he kissed him.

Having very little experience in this field, Sherlock let John guide him. Their lips, gentle against each other at first, grew more demanding. Teeth ground against teeth until Sherlock, almost by accident, parted his mouth and allowed John's tongue to slip in and explore his own.

His hands, which had found their own way into John's mop of blonde hair, travelled lower to pull the smaller man in tightly. The stood as one, bodies pressing together with a need Sherlock had never experienced before.

At least, not for another person.

Kissing, exploring, removing clothes, they made their way to the couch. Once there Sherlock pulled John, now topless, onto himself. He finished removing his own shirt while John lost his trousers. In nothing but pants they continued their discovery of each other's bodies.

Sherlock could have gone on like that forever, working to re-memorize every inch of his best friend's body, including some parts previously undiscovered. But John had other plans. At some point he had removed their remaining barriers and now John began a slow and in-depth exploration of Sherlock's prick. With his tongue.

Unable to move, to talk, to even think, Sherlock allowed the waves of pleasure to wash over him. A pressure was building deep inside of him, a crescendo of light and heat and sound that burst forth with a strangled cry of release. Still, John didn't stop, licking and sucking until every ounce of Sherlock was drenched in bliss.

"My turn," he whispered huskily, turning Sherlock over with a gentleness that belied his own urgent desire.

Relaxed to the point of bonelessness, Sherlock barely registered the first spit-covered finger entering his hole. The second he felt, and it was delicious. The third was a torture—not of pain but of eagerness.

"Please John."

The doctor needed no further invitation. His fingers ceased their ministrations, but before Sherlock could protest their departure he felt the head of John's prick poised at his entrance. It took every ounce of his willpower not to thrust backward, claiming John for his own. He would let John do the taking. And he did.

Sherlock felt his body stretch to accommodate, burning in a way that walked that perfect line between pain and pleasure. Slowly the doctor pressed in until he was buried completely, then backed out with the same agonizing slowness. The process was repeated until they both adjusted to the new sensations. John picked up the pace and Sherlock all but wept as he hit some magical, nameless place deep inside. John's hand found Sherlock's prick again and began to pump him in a matching rhythm. They rose together toward a shared apex, calling each other's names as they reached it.

Spent, they rolled to their sides, breaths calming and matching, skin pressed against skin until he wasn't sure where he ended and John began. Weariness overcame them and they sunk, letting the waves of exhaustion overcome them.

Just before Sherlock gave in he whispered, "Don't ever leave me again."

"I won't," John promised. "You're home now. I'll never let you go."

"Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?"

Sherlock was unsurprised and only mildly irritated to find his brother standing over him when he awoke. What shocked him were the tears running freely down Mycroft's usually guarded face.

"I fixed it."

Head spinning, cold and hungry, Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position. "Where's John?"

"You know where John is."

Yes, of course. He must have gotten up to use the loo. Nice of him to dress Sherlock before he went. Sherlock made his way onto unsteady feat and crossed to the table where he picked up some of the leftover meal. Mycroft was there, batting it out of his hand before he could take a bite."

"Sherlock, stop."

"But I'm hungry."

"How many times have you…eaten today?"

"Three?" No, it couldn't be a question. "Three," he repeated proudly. John wouldn't have to worry about his appetite anymore. It seemed he couldn't get enough.

"It was a mistake to come back here."

"No it wasn't. I don't make mistakes."

"You did." Mycroft's voice was filled with an ancient weariness. Sherlock closed his eyes against the fear and apprehension it conjured.

"Sherlock, look around. Look!"

He opened his eyes slowly, unwillingly. The flat was a wreck, worse than he'd found it yesterday. The table he found himself resting against did not hold the feast he'd set out for John, only a needle, lighter, spoon, and baggie of all-too-familiar powder.

"What happened?"

"You made a mistake, brother."

"I don't make mistakes!" he insisted.

"You did. You called a bluff that wasn't a bluff."

"NO!" Sherlock felt himself fall to the floor, didn't bother to try to brace himself against the impact. His arms hurt, and he saw they were riddled with small puncture holes. He was hungry, needed his food to make the reality go away. The reality of what he did.

"I killed my best friend," he sobbed.

Mycroft sat beside him, reaching out awkwardly to offer comfort. "You made a mistake."

"I don't…" He couldn't finish. "But I fixed it. I worked it all out. What I could have done."

"Time, Sherlock, is one enemy even you can't defeat. It's been eight years. You have to stop doing this. Let me sell this place. I never would have bought it if I'd known what it would do to you. You need to go back to the hospital now. My people are outside. Don't fight."

Sherlock nodded. He could do little else. But he wasn't giving in. He was Sherlock Holmes. He would get it right next time.


End file.
